Bridal Party Selections - Let's Get Real

Often times we find ourselves looking back at our youth wishing we had made different choices. For instance, political science wasn't the most ideal degree to pursue. Or perhaps, it'd have been a better idea to take that Millennium Scholarship and remain in state to graduate debt free. But, we make choices, and we have to live with them as office support staff with mediocre credit. If there was one thing I could go back and change, it would be all of the time I spent falling down outside of bars/clubs, not knowing why I woke up naked in a seedy apartment, and making overall bad decisions not saving money. You see, you need to spend your early twenties saving...for your late twenties when you'll be required to spend all of that money on your friends' weddings, or worse, your wedding.

 

As with anything in life, you need money so your friends don't judge you (as much). You need money to throw the party of a lifetime that will take you a lifetime to pay off everyone will be raving about for years to come. It is important to keep in mind, however, that the money that will go into planning a wedding doesn't begin to compete with the judgments that come flooding in the day of.

Of course, everyone in attendance is essentially interested in finding out if the bride reached her #sheddingforthewedding goal, and, more importantly, if the reception is open bar how beautiful the bride looks as she walks down the aisle to her awaiting groom while exchanging looks of pure love, but I always find myself distracted by the wedding party. Why those people? Siblings? Best friends? Obligatory appointing of a cousin? Are the bride and groom guilelessly designating people they know will ensure an aesthetically pleasing wedding album, or do those chosen few genuinely represent them as individuals? Spoiler alert: No, they do not.

 

This is the one thing everyone gets wrong during the wedding planning (other than opting for a cash bar, asshole). No one cares if you made a pact with your childhood friend under the slide by interlocking pinkies - don't put that troll in your wedding. By no means does that relationship exhibit your true qualities. We, the invited guests and our uninvited plus-ones, are judging you from start to finish (yes, this includes your engagement ring and honeymoon destination). Help us critique fairly by representing yourself accurately. Simply, populate your bridal party with all of the people you have slept with.

 

You learn from your mistakes (allegedly). Your choices shape the person you become. Those former flings were your choices, your mistakes, and they may very well determine the success of your marriage(s). So, let us know where you came from. Better yet, let your bride/groom know what they're getting into (in both the figurative and literal sense). Your last boyfriend needs to be there to help your groom loop, swoop, and pull that bowtie. Your ex girl is quintessential to the hair/makeup process for your soon-to-be wife. Perhaps this even means your baby momma will be more comfortable knowing she can hold your mutual mistake's child's hand as she dispassionately sprinkles rose petals down the aisle as a flower girl. The bridal party will boast sheer reality-TV-worthy perfection.

 

Source

The best man will be the bride's most recent lay, and the maid of honor, the groom's last conquest. Unfortunately, this could make bachelor/ette parties a thing of the past so as to avoid last minute additions, but sacrifices must be made.  In this regard, weddings only get better for same-sex marriages because some members of the bridal party might be required to run back and forth during the ceremony to adequately represent both brides/grooms. Conversely, it gets rather boring for the purity-ring toting ultra-conservative folk. Might as well elope at that point - nothing to see there.

 

Ultimately, this might encourage people to live a more chaste life...if they're poor. If you're wealthy give a piece to anyone who is willing - makes for a better attended reception and unforgettable revelry. Careful, though - your mother might disapprove. However, if you're like me, and you're used to that kind of thing - enjoy.

 

Now, let's put this into practice.

An Open Letter to the Hiring Manager (With Edits)

*Remember: Keep those cover letters clear and concise.

Dear Hiring Manager:

I am willing to pay applying for the position advertised on your career site, a site I was perusing during work hours at my current place of employment. As a product of a Las Vegas upbringing, I understand applying through a career site is a complete gamble. I am not necessarily a fan of a lottery system - sure, I play the numbers here and there, dreaming of a life of travel and leisure (so far, no hits), but I do not consider myself a lucky person, though I get lucky often. As such, I tend to reach work around the luck-of-the-draw systems. For example, instead of alcohol-infused sleepless nights hoping to be accepted into the ING New York City Marathon via their lottery, I ran. I ran nine New York Road Runner races and volunteered for one in 2012, guaranteeing myself a bib in ING’s last title sponsored New York City Marathon this past November. Essentially, I worked tirelessly for months to work even harder on November 3rd. Unfortunately, I do not have a system for working around the career site onslaught of applications. Thus, here I am, hoping a few paragraphs in a cover letter will shine bright enough to hit one of you in the face with my brilliance.

Sleeping Social media is my passion - how else is one expected to evaluate their self-worth other than with likes and retweets? I dream of working from home going into work each day, affecting the mood of a nation with a simple status update or blog post. Sadly, it has taken me quite a few post graduate years in the workforce to be in the position to allow my aspirations to come to fruition. Now that I live with my boyfriend, transitioning to a much lower salary, as your company offers, is seemingly acceptable if I ever want to enjoy what I do for a living. However, those years afforded me the time necessary to master a diverse skill set (e.g. making coffee and opening mail), for which I could not be more grateful. My prowess for administrative tasks now seems second nature, which I despise, and my understanding of the corporate environment assists my navigation of difficult and, at times, sensitive situations. The only thing stronger than my skill set is my alcohol tolerance work ethic. I have worked since I was legally able, paying my way through college with various work study positions and part time jobs. If I wanted to afford a fake ID, I would have to earn it the honest way. I have always endeavored to better myself, and going after my passion is the only logical next step other than sleeping my way to the top.

While I understand this cover letter is rather unconventional, I hope it has adequately summarized my immense interest in working for any company other than the one I am currently employed with such a well-established and beyond successful company such as yours. I promise to bring my experience and enthusiasm to the position at your company, a promise much firmer than any Kardashian marriage vow.

Thank you for your time, and, more importantly, for choosing to review my application out of what is sure to be a vast assortment of less qualified applicants.

Sincerely,


Patricia Lily


Coupled with my interview skills, it is evident that I will never get hired anywhere else be hired by a top company rather soon.

Living in Sin

Alternative titles: “How to Hide Your Foul Habits From Your Significant-Other-Now-Roommate,” “Learning to Come to Terms With Your Mother Hating You While Saving on Rent,” and “Copulation in Every Corner” 

To get back to blogging, for those of you who enjoy the misdeeds of others, and to celebrate the start of the Lenten Season, a post about sin seems more than appropriate. It is not my intention to bore you with any regular sinning, however. Rather, seeing as I am currently (newly) living in sin, let’s delve into that, or, as my mother refers to it, “what was the gospel about in mass today?”*

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Daddy issues having dissipated (or so I have convinced myself), I made the "yay-this-will-be-so-fun!" decision to move in with the boyfriend. If my mother doesn't hate me enough for it, Jesus surely does. But not to worry, I have weighed eternal damnation against splitting rent costs and a doubled DVD collection and chose wisely. I mean, cohabitation seemed like the next logical step in our relationship (not that my relationship resume boasts a history of healthy partnerships, but I have consulted friends in this regard) - essentially, I no longer wanted to travel to Brooklyn. Sadly, this came at a cost. 

Hoarding is in my genetic makeup - meaning, it’s not my fault. These tendencies were learnt behaviors that manifested themselves in the womb. There was no hope for me. Alongside learning to brush my teeth and tie my shoelaces (self-taught as I will forever argue), I was mastering the art of accumulation. Fortunately, particular skills of abundance were lost from generation to generation. As such, I have managed to keep my hoarding to a minimum - old concert ticket stubs here, notes from middle school crushes there with an occasional baby tooth sneaking in from time to time. In no way do I condone keeping cloth diapers from your child's poop-themselves days. However, my mother does. She likely has my entire youth wardrobe in the garage, ya know, "so (my) kids can wear them, too!" Again, my hoarding is not even close to this level. Yet, somehow, I was still required to purge all of my belongings and memories a lot prior to move in day.

I'm not dense. I fully understand that when two people move in together, some items are no longer acceptable. These items are of the "I've lived alone for the past two years and have dodged any judgments because of this" variety. They include, but are not limited to [entering judgment-free zone]: vibrators (no, I don't know why I had more than one - these things happen), many articles of exes' clothing (because basketball shorts and over-sized shirts are comfortable during the moments I'm not allowed to spend naked - e.g. when strangers of an asexual nature enter my dwelling), stuffed animals (gifted by everyone from grandma to the Happy Meal aficionado at McDonald's), period panties (oh, come on, you knew that one had to be mentioned), framed photos of the Kama Sutra (allegedly inappropriate), various clothing items that I wear as undershirts so it doesn't matter if they're pitted out under the arms, God, I sweat more than others, okay?! leave me alone! (apologies, that got out of control), shoes (R.I.P.), assorted unwanted gifts that await a holiday and/or birthday to come around so I can regift them, decor color schemes (zero color is a scheme, thank you), eleven throw pillows (ugh, tear), and Sipasaurus (I don't want to talk about it). Sure, the purging that I went through wasn't that dramatic - I didn't lose my identity in the process, but it was tough. [Stop here if you hate love] What isn't tough, however, is going to bed and waking up every day next to the love of my life...and splitting rent. [Resume]

After two and a half weeks of living in sin, I suppose I don't truly miss any of my old belongings (until a holiday comes around and I am a gift or seven short). Although, I do miss not thinking twice when I leave my clothes on the floor of the bathroom, the toilet paper placed the proper way on the dispenser (over, not under, of course), uninterrupted Netflix binges, and the avoidance of judgments over multiple empty bottles of wine. But all-in-all, playing house is super fun - as sinning typically is. How else do you figure out if you and your partner are fully compatible? Marriage? Eek, reeks with finality. Yes, my mother and grandparents aren't the happiest with my decision (a little bit more disappointment than when I pierced my nose at 16), but they're not paying half my rent...my new roommate is - and, in the end, isn't that the only thing that matters?

*If you are lucky enough to receive pop quizzes about mass on Sundays, here’s a tip to avoid an hour long lecture about how bottomless brunches in the Village cannot be considered a substitute for the Eucharist: Instead of regurgitating the day’s gospel story that you located via a quick Google search, get a little creative. Tell your mother, that you would rather discuss the intricately exhilarating homily that your priest/deacon/bishop (you get the idea) shared. Start with something broad to make it believable (best to go with what I will refer to as a “happy Jesus, happy life” value - e.g. treat others as you would want to be treated, honor your father and mother, do not steal/commit adultery/have fun - really just pick anything from one of the Ten Commandments and you’re golden). After she has zoned out on your Biblical recap, throw in a few curve balls. Mention how your priest discussed his unwavering support for same-sex marriage or women serving as priests. You know, something really Catholic-y. If she ignores the misstep, quickly excuse yourself until the following week. If she notices, congratulations! She won’t be calling for at least a couple weeks as she will be too busy lighting candles and praying to the Almighty to have mercy on your likely-to-be-damned soul.